


Tying Strings to Airplanes

by colberry



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Aoi Wins, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Mild Smut, Morning After, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberry/pseuds/colberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s about to apologize for taking too long to leave, about to bite out that he’s sorry Reita and Michiko broke up, but the words are lost somewhere between his heart and throat.</p><p>Because he wants to clutch at Reita’s collar and snarl that he won’t ever be sorry, that he’ll gladly let the bassist have him again – gladly let him grab his hair, bruise his lips and take him and /if you want me to stay, I’ll stay./</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tying Strings to Airplanes

The sky was seeping, falling, falling into Aoi’s hair – galaxies swept into midnight tresses.  And if Reita was a poet, he mused — sinking his fingers deep into this opaque universe to grasp at the roots – he would have waxed warbling sonnets connoting each nova, cluster and nebula with his fingertips.

But Reita wasn’t a poet.  His fingertips were puckered and scarred with calluses and Aoi’s hair was dry and damaged from the onslaught of dye, extensions and rock-star-metamorphose.  It’s crimped and dulled from trying to clutch a piece of god’s jaw himself to become a deity upon the stage; bathed in neon with decadent navy and kohl painted along his eyelashes.

And if Reita was a poet – and he’s not – he would whisper against Aoi’s heaving chest, his jutting clavicle, that he was already divine in those moments when he has a stray dab of cleanser streaking his jaw.  Still divine when cigarette ashes dust his lips and coat his fingernails.  Divine even when he’s bent over at an odd, crooked angle in the dim of the studio – brow wrinkled as he attempts to scribble down notes as fast as he's strumming minor chords and melancholic riffs.

Perhaps most divine when he closes his noir eyes tight, body lithe and mouth falling open to gasp – his back arching beautifully into Reita’s hand –

But Reita’s not a poet – he’s a bassist.  And so he swallows those words, those verses of _you’re not a secondhand comfort, Aoi, I swear_ (because the breakup message from Michiko is not even three hours old yet and Aoi knows it) – and touches his lips to the elder’s, presses softly against the downturned corner of flesh. 

His callused fingers stroke those hips and wonders if he were to grasp Aoi’s hand, would their scars of bandhood would align – fit together?  But he keeps his hands on the guitarist’s rolling hips – all the while mouthing along Aoi’s ribs _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry”_ and _“you’re a nova – ”_.  And Aoi gasps, hands desperately reaching for Reita’s narrow shoulders, nails sinking in and leaving little reminders they’ll both blush and stutter over in the morning –

– The morning where Aoi wakes up first, feels Reita’s cold ankles resting against his knees, and waits.  Aoi holds his breath, perfectly sober and willing to stay completely still as dawn drains the night in his hair.  It makes Reita’s face glow and if Aoi was a poet, he might have written inside his bones how the sight was ethereal, beautiful.  And Aoi stays – drifting in a lovely vertigo of awake and dream.  He’s perfectly content to trace the dapples of sun on the younger’s face with his silent eyes; to memorize the feel of Reita’s ankles on his skin.

But too soon, Aoi hears the catch in Reita’s lungs – morning broken – and he breathes in deep, the warm smell of motor oil, sandalwood and sun close to his chest, and leaves.

Reita’s kitchen tiles are frigid against his bare feet.  The nip of _what-could-be_ and _what-isn’t_ claws at his ribs, breaking through the bone to sink deep into his heart.

Because he can still feel Reita’s pulse against his lips, but also remembers the whisper from the doorframe as the moon hushed across the floorboards, their steps to the bed unsteady, _“You don’t need to stay – ”_

Aoi’s aware that he plays the role of the star, the charmer, the smirking tease and the uncatchable well – too well.  But more than he wants the neon lights, the screams or the divine pedestal-glory, he wants to _stay_.

So, when he hears the navy sheets rustle, the threshold creak – Aoi’s hand pauses on the doorknob.

Turning around, he takes in the warmth of seeing Reita standing there.  Blond hair mussed, jersey askew and lips swollen.  Eyes hesitant.

And if Aoi was a poet, he would scrawl a verse of how the dapples of sun were still caressing the younger’s cheek like a sweet lover.

But he’s not – he’s a guitarist.

He’s about to apologize for taking too long to leave, about to bite out that he’s sorry Reita and Michiko broke up, but the words are lost somewhere between his heart and throat.

Because he wants to clutch at Reita’s collar and snarl that he won’t ever be sorry, that he’ll gladly let the bassist have him again – gladly let him grab his hair, bruise his lips and take him and _if you want me to stay, I’ll stay – I can stay, please let me –_

Reita whispers, “Do you want some coffee?”

_stay-stay-stay_

Novas are bursting behind his eyes, chest full of nitrogen, and Aoi can’t rip his hand away from the doorknob fast enough.  He’s torn between a declaration of _passion-love-I’ll-stay-forever_ and lunging into Reita, reaching out and closing his arms around him like a vice –

But Aoi’s not a poet.

So he simply says:

“Yes.”


End file.
